Repercussions
by shiny-chang
Summary: -chaptered- After the war, all that's left is an empty shell.
1. empty shell

**Empty Shell**

_by shiny-chang_

She finds him sitting outside the Muggle coffee shop, sipping from a steaming mug and silently watching the traffic pass by. His eyes are sunken in, a dull green with the life drained out of them. He's weary and tired, she knows, and that's the reason why he's here, sitting outside the Muggle coffee shop. She sighs and closes the distance between them.

'Hey,' she whispers, the corners of her lips curving into a sympathetic smile. He turns to look at her, his eyes remaining dull and unsurprised at her presence.

'Hey,' his reply is hollow, and there's nothing she can do to relieve the detachment in his voice.

They sit in companionable silence, her small hand over his pale one. The sky grows ever darker, temperature dropping a few degrees.

'Come on, Harry. We have to go home now,' she whispers, pulling lightly on his hand as she stands up, wrapping her scarf around her neck to ward off the October breeze. He complies, allowing himself to be pulled down the street towards his London flat.

It's dark and empty, as always. The light flickers on, a bright harsh white illuminating the bareness of the single room. She allows him to stumble to the threadbare sofa, his eyes closing over his dull dull eyes. Her smile saddens, as she turns off the light and leaves the apartment, silently locking the door behind her.

There's nothing anyone can do to help him now. Not her, not Ron, not Mrs Weasley.

He's beyond help now. The empty shell that's left behind.

**260 words**


	2. the whiteness is comforting

**the whiteness is comforting**

_by shiny-chang_

His gaze follows the white flakes drifting past the window, diagonal slants landing in the white blanket smothering the ground. It's too quiet, too muffled. For the past seven months, there's been a constant hum and buzz of the activity around him, but now there's nothing.

Nothing but the white snow to keep him company.

Usually he would be out, sitting outside of the little coffee shop on the corner of the road, or, when the wind was bitter and the rain too wet, just tucked away inside the café. But now the door won't open and he's stuck indoors with nothing to see for miles.

He barely hears the crackle of the fireplace flash green before someone clambers out, dusting themselves off carefully on the mat in front of the fire.

'Harry.'

It's a female voice. The same female voice. He has an inkling he should know whose voice it is, niggling at the back of his head, but it's too much effort to think, to properly listen.

'Harry.'

His eyes narrow as he hears her voice again.

'Harry.'

He feels anger bubbling. Anger at his ignorance of whose voice it is, anger at the fact that she's said his name three times, anger at everything.

'Harry.'

He doesn't move. He can't, or he won't. He's too tired. He's been too tired for a long time, but it's still not long enough.

'Harry.'

She's getting annoyed, that much he can tell.

'Harry.'

There's a crackle and a flash of green. He thinks she's gone, but it's too exhausting to turn around and look.

He lets out a silent breath, watching the glass mist up before turning clear again.

The snow seems like a good place to be in. It's cold and numbing. It's white and blank. It doesn't expect anything of him except to lie in it.

He's out of the door in seconds, knee-deep in the iciness. He can't feel anything, not that he's felt anything for the past few months.

A blob of colour is moving towards him, but he sinks down until he's chest-deep in the snow and can't see the blob anymore. There's nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to feel, except for the whiteness of the snow. It's comforting, in a blank sort of way, he finds, as he lies even deeper into the snow.

'Potter!'


	3. beyond help

**beyond help**

_by shiny-chang_

'I'm really worried about him.'

'Is he no better?'

'No! If anything, he seems … even more numb.'

'Oh.'

A pause.

'Is Ron not with him then?'

'No, he's not at the Burrow. He's at –' she hesitates. 'Grimmauld Place.'

'Surely that can't be good for him. There's only _Kreacher_ there.'

'I know, _I__know_. But he refuses to move away.'

'Does he still go to that dingy old coffee shop?'

'Yeah. But I don't think he's going to go for much longer, the snow's coming.'

'He probably won't even notice.'

Their eyes sadden and their voices become weaker as they travel further away.

'Where's Potter?'

'Why do you want to know?' Her tone isn't cross and defensive, just curious.

He shrugs. He doesn't know either.

'Just, after the …' He pauses, but she nods, understanding what he can't say. 'I would've thought that he would be on the front page of the Prophet and every other magazine and newspaper in existence. But he's not. Or not for being 'The Boy Who Lived Twice Becomes Auror' or other stupid news.'

She nods, biting the edge of her lip as she considers what to reply to his statement. To say that they'd never been on good terms would have been an understatement – for the majority of her school career, he'd mocked her for her ancestry, for her hair, her teeth, her bookwormish tendencies, the list went on. But for the past term, he had done nothing except put his head down and work and work.

Her eyes sadden and she shakes her head.

'I don't know, Malfoy. I don't know where he is?'

He frowns. He knows she's lying, and he tells her so.

'I've heard your conversations with Longbottom and Lovegood. I know that you know perfectly well where he is.'

The edge of her mouth quirk into an enigmatic smile.

'I know you did.'

'So why don't you just tell me?'

'I don't know where he is. I don't know where his mind is, where his heart is, where his soul is anymore. Oh, I know where he is _physically_, he's probably sitting somewhere in London, watching the cars go by, watching the days go by, hiding away from reporters, from _everyone_. But I don't know what he's thinking, what he's feeling. I can't predict him, I don't know what he _might_ do. I know what he _does_ do. But I don't _know_! I don't know _anything_. He's _empty_. He was reckless before. He tore down walls, burnt holes into the ground, Splinched his foot, nearly cursed me into a coma. But I knew that he was angry! He was angry, so, so angry! We could predict what he would do. And it was physical damage we could fix. But now… Now … He's just, _empty_. He's worse than George was. He sits and sits, and watches. But he doesn't. I can tell he's not seeing, he's not hearing, he's not _being_. He's broken and _empty_. He's _empty_, Draco. He's nothing. And I can't – can't – can't help him. We can't help him. Ron can't help him, Mrs Weasley can't, Neville can't. We _all_ can't… Draco… I don't kn- I can't do _anything_…'

Tears are flowing out of her eyes, winding a pathway down her cheeks, as she stares at him helplessly. And he can't do anything. He stands, shock still.

And suddenly, his arms are around her, in an unfamiliar but not entirely uncomfortable hug. It's the first hug he's ever willingly given, and he doesn't know why. But it feels … right. She buries her head into his shoulder as he feels the wetness of her tears soak into his sweater. He frowns – it's his best jumper – but doesn't move away.

They stand with his arms around her, and minutes tick by. In the distance, he hears the bell ring and the rising chatter as the students start to make their way to lunch. And yet they stand together, unmoving. Because that's the only help he can give, when Granger can't.

**Not entirely happy with the ending… But… thoughts?**


	4. unconscious

**unconscious**

_by shiny-chang_

The first thing he acknowledges when he comes to is just how much the whiteness of the place hurts his eyes. There's a murmur to his side, right, or left, he doesn't know, but it sounds like shouting now, screaming in his ears.

A blur of brown-black-off-white moves into his vision, but that's all it is. A blur.

His arm feels dead, whatever dead is supposed to feel like; he supposes it's this explosion that's spreading to his shoulder, his neck, but he doesn't know, because his back suddenly burns and his head pounds like ten Hippogriffs have just stamped all over it, or maybe it's actually a Niffler, but it's definitely not Fluffy, because… Well, because Fluffy is meant to be fluffy. Right?

No-one answers him. Or maybe they did. But he can't hear, because those shouting have disappeared, and his ears feel numb, and now it's turning black.

It's the screams which jolt Draco from the slumber he fell into half an hour ago. He jumps from his seat, instantly shunted to the side as Healers rush into the room and attempt to calm Harry down. He watches from the side, grey eyes narrowed in concern he wouldn't have felt before the war but is now saturated in as the man – no, _boy_ (because they never had a chance to grow up like normal people) thrashes and attempts to fight off the Healers.

Five minutes pass, and the Healers still haven't sedated him, scared that they will hit him in the wrong place, and then what will they do? Even though the public haven't seen him in months, he's still their Saviour, their Golden Boy; he's still The Boy Who Lived (Draco nearly snorts, because he's not doing much living, is he?)

Ten minutes pass, and Draco slowly approaches, grabbing onto the bedframe to steady himself (his leg hasn't been the same since the fire, and it would never be the same). The Healers nearly stop in their attempts to calm him down as they watch the blonde haired man tentatively touch the bed, fingers inching nearer to the thrashing form.

He doesn't know what he's doing, approaching his childhood enemy, but he pays no mind to the stares he gets from the Healers around him, gently laying a hand on the shoulder of the black haired man.

Harry lets out a sigh and, as if he hadn't been kicking everyone away a second ago, a small smile graces his lips.

* * *

><p><strong>Gah. I didn't realise how long I haven't written... This was actually written last year, but I put it up on my lj first, and then only decided today to actually put it on ff. This is probably the only story (collection) that I'm gonna update on here. Any other stories can be found on my lj ( .com), just because I spend more time there than on here.<strong>


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